


The Mystery of Glenn Perch

by ZoltanBerrigomo



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Complete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoltanBerrigomo/pseuds/ZoltanBerrigomo
Summary: Lambert takes on a quest that pays suspiciously well. Something strange is going on, but will he be able to figure out what?





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one belief about the witchers that was the most absurd - and, at a time when _Monstrum_: _A Portrayal of Witchers _was stacked by every bookseller in the four kingdoms, there were quite a few delusions about witchers floating about - it might be that the witchers were cooperating to foist some nefarious plot upon the Northern Kingdoms. In truth, witchers were not terribly fond of each other; whenever a group gathered together, insults and recriminations flew like rounds of beer. Such were the thoughts in Geralt's head as he took a swill of his mead and, glancing across the table, reflected that Lambert's face never looked more punchable.

"All right, enough now!" Vesemir interjected, in that weary schoolmaster tone that came naturally to him. In fairness, they were not far from a collection of misbehaved children. Just now, Lambert had complained of the lack of visits from any sorceresses this winter; went on to badger Geralt about rumours of a duel between some well-known female magicians over the rights to his bedchamber; and, finally, proceeded to make a series of cat noises in the air which, though they did not seem to amuse Geralt much, did evince some giggling from Eskel.

"Very well," Lambert agreed readily. He seemed to understand that he was being a boor, though this understanding seemed to have few tangible effects on his behavior. He took a swig of Rivian Kriek. It was weak, vile stuff with an odious flavor of cherry, but they had a cellar of it this winter and someone had to drink it.

"I'll make amends," he went on, "with a tale. A quest that netted me a tidy little profit."

Vesemir grunted a noise of approval. In principle, this was the very purpose of wintering together at Kaer Morhen; though the winters were long and the company offensive, when it came time to depart they'd know the lay of the land and might guess better where their services were most required.

"Where?"

"A little hamlet not far from the Redanian-Temerian border. The signpost read Glenn Perch."

"Never heard of it," Geralt said and the other witchers agreed.

"It's a small place," Lambert went on. "Think a few dozen houses at a crossroads, a few fields, some huts in the woods. Lots of thatched roofs. The smell of chicken-shit in the air. You know the sort."

They did indeed. Every man at the table had occasionally taken on a quest in such a place during hard times in exchange for a warm bed by the fire and a heap of scrambled eggs for breakfast.

"How much did they pay?"

"The letter nailed to the board said two hundred orens."

Vesemir whistled. "Two hundred? How could a place like that…"

"I know," Lambert said. "In retrospect, that should have been the first sign that something was amiss…"


	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, that should have been the first sign something was amiss. But you know me, I'm a greedy fucker. When I made my way to Glenn Perch, the first thing I asked the headman was to show me the money. He kept trying to tell me about ghouls, but I said that unless he shows me the orens, right there and then, I'm turning around, going to my horse, and galloping out of that shithole faster than a ghoul would take to barf up his remains.

(Oh, do shut up Geralt. Yes, I can tell by your scowl when you're about to say something.)

So he huffs and puffs but at last he heads into his house and a few minutes minutes later, he emerges with a pouch full of gold. I count them. I count them again. I count them them a third time. It's all there, two hundred bloody orens.

All right then, I say. This is your friendly neighborhood witcher, what seems to be the problem?

Of course, now he has to go back to his house and lock it up, which takes him an absurdly long time and meanwhile I'm standing there like a sore thumb. Finally, he comes out and starts telling me about their infestation.

Long story short: the ghouls come out at night and wonder through the village. I could tell you more, because he certainly had some trouble shutting up, but that's the gist of it.

Yes, I know, I know. It doesn't make sense. Ghouls aren't known for their propensity to take strolls. And yet this man tells me they wonder the streets. Not only that, they do it every night. We all know that ghouls are attracted to rotting flesh, but as far as I can tell, there's no rotting flesh in sight anywhere. The villagers deal with it all by staying in their houses until the sun is out full force. Apparently, the ghouls just ignore them.

I know, I know. What the ploughing hell?

So I'm thinking...several things. This guy might be off his rocker, for one. Or he might be confusing ghouls with something else. Perhaps his grandfather had a mislabeled monster coloring book . What? Don't look at me like that. But mostly I'm thinking about those two hundred orens.

The sun is beginning to set as we speak, so I tell him I'll watch what's going on from one of the rooftops. I can handle a few ghouls, but I don't want to blunder into fighting an army of them I can't handle (see Vesemir? There were times I paid attention). He tells me again that the monsters seem to ignore the people within the houses; I suppose I could have sat by a window somewhere, but I wanted to get a clearer look. So, we head to a house with a roof.

Well, most of the houses there are barely more than hovels, and many of the remainders have roofs either sloping down or made of straw; but there is one house which he says is suitable, and we begin walking to it. On the way, I start noticing that, while this place is mostly a dump, there are a number of recent-looking additions that aren't so bad. Picture houses of solid timber, the smell of fresh paint, gabled windows, the sort of place a travelling merchant might keep, not some pig-fucking peasant.

Finally, we stop at one house, one of these nicer ones, and he has a few words with the woman who lives there. I can't understand what they're saying to each other - they speak some kind of local dialect I've never heard before - but he explains that I can stay with this woman as long as I'm working on their problem. Taking a nervous look at the position of the sun in the sky, he breaks into a slow run back towards his house.

I take a look at my host- whose name is Agniezska by the way - and you know what? Not bad, not bad at all. Picture dirty blond hair, a harshly-sloped face. Not in the bloom of her youth, but still quite pretty. A little tall, but that's just how I like them. And tits. Big tits. Not that you can really tell, given the frumpy clothes these villagers wear, but I got a sense for these things.

"So you're the witcher," she says.

"Yes, madam," I say. I've always been shit at making small talk. Hey Vesemir, how come that was never in the curriculum? I swear I'd make a lot more orens if I was better at socializing. I'm completely serious here.

Yes, I'm going back to the story. So I may not be great at small talk, but I am conversant with the basics. I compliment her on the house, tell her I'm eternally grateful for her generous hospitality, etcetera etcetera. She's wearing some kind of shiny green pendant, and I tell her it looks very elegant. I can tell she's starting to relax, and she begins telling me how hard life is with all the monsters coming out at night, how she's afraid for her little son every time he goes out to play. Her husband didn't come back from the war, so there's no one to help her.

Wonderful, I'm thinking, no husband. I tell her I'm going to take care of all the monsters, that her village will be safe like never before, that she'll never again have to worry about her little boy. By the time I'm done assuring her, her sharp demeanor is gone, and she begins smiling at me. I'm thinking this is turning out to be a sweet deal - not only will I make two hundred orens, but I'm sure this young mother will be very, very grateful.

By that time the sun has already set. She leads me up the stairs to the attic and there I manage to squeeze myself out of a little window and onto the roof. I perch myself and wait for the ghouls to come out.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt refilled his mead. "Lambert, have I ever told you how much I enjoy listening to your stories? Your charming personality always shines through."

"Plough yourself Geralt."

"I, for one," declared Vesemir, "could do with fewer references to ladies' anatomy."

"Ah, Vesemir, always the gentleman," said Eskel.

"I'll tell you what the problem is," said Lambert. "Look around us. What do you see? I am obliged to point out that the company here is overwhelmingly masculine. If this were to change - if we had a few sorceresses here with us, for example - I assure you I would become the most gallant of men."

"Not this shit again," Geralt said. "How many times with the sorceresses?"

"And what happened with the ghouls? Did you really see them ambling about the village?

"I did," Lambert said. "The headman did not lie…"


	4. Chapter 4

The headman did not lie. The moment the sun had set, the first ghoul traipsed out of a copse at the edge of the village and began to spring down the main street; when it had reached the end, it had stopped, paused as if in thought, and then turned and went back the other way. I watched it walk back-and-forth for quite a while. Soon afterwards, a second ghoul emerged from the trees, then a third. A half hour later, the village was crawling with them.

They really did not seem to pay much attention to the houses. They turned from street to street, pausing occasionally; it was as if they were looking for something and never quite finding them. I could tell they were growling with hunger.

Need I describe the stench? They were maybe eighty or ninety of them. I'll never get used to their smell; and that many, all at once, in a space that is not too large to begin with….well, I'll say it began to approximate Eskel's breath after a few rounds of beer.

Plough me, I'm thinking. This is strange. This is something I haven't seen before. What should I do?

Of course, I could kill them all. Oh, don't look at me like that Vesemir. It doesn't matter how many ghouls there are, as long as you've got solid mana reserves for signs. Then it's just a matter of positioning. find yourself a good funnel where at most four or five of them can squeeze through and start spamming igni.

But I knew killing them would be a bad solution. Something is drawing them to the village; something is causing them to behave in this way. If I kill them all, I might leave with the headman's pouch of money - but a new group of ghouls would find its way soon and the villagers problems would start over again.

Well, I watched them for an hour or so before I headed back into the house. A fresh bed had been prepared for me, and I need not tell you that for a witcher on the path, this can be an unexpected luxury. The pillows were soft as foam, and it seemed that as soon as I laid my head on them, I was in a cloud of dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

I woke up the next morning full of energy, and eager to solve the matter quickly. Agniezka had prepared a wonderful breakfast of dumplings and I regaled her with stories of my witcher-y exploits as I ate. It was an excellent way to start the day and, come to think of it, it was probably around noon or so by the time I set out of the house.

My first step was to pay another visit to the headman. I informed him that my preliminary investigations revealed that these were a special variety of Zerrikanean ghouls, bigger, stronger, smarter than the usual variety and infinitely more terrifying; that it was a mystery how these super-ghouls had found their way here from the foul Zerrikanean shores; that no witcher in his right mind would agree to take them on, at such great risk to himself; and that consequently, I would now bid him farewell and consider the two of us free of all obligations towards each other. I proclaimed all this rather grandly, with a booming voice that was sure to be heard across the village; and indeed, by the end, a crowd of peasants had gathered to watch my conversation with the headman. Satisfied, I turned to the road leading out of the village, and began to walk away.

To tell you the truth, I was shaking him down for an extra fifty orens. Hey, prices are not set in stone, am I right? A little re-negotiation was in order. Well, imagine my surprise when, running after me and waving his hands, he offers me five hundred orens, right then and there.

I stared at him googly-eyed for a few moments before regaining my self control. Where is he getting that kind of money in this podunk little village? But I had the good sense to play it cool. I told him I was tempted, but the Zerrikanean ghouls were still a little too dangerous. Eventually we agreed on six hundred and fifty.

Six. Hundred. And. Fifty.

I start thinking what I'm going to do with all that money. I might head next to Novigrad for a little visit to Passiflora. There's a dwarf lady by the name of Polna there that I'm rather fond of. Say, any of you gentlemen know her? Come, come, don't pretend you don't know what Passiflora is. We're all men here, aren't we?

Fine, I'll get on with it. So, I had better describe the headman, as he'll play some part in the story. His name was Lazslo; imagine a short, stocky man in overall, middle aged and balding. I never saw him do any work himself, but there were always a few peasants he was ordering around.

I asked him how long the ghouls have been coming at night; about two months, he says. Maybe two and a half. Did something unusual happen when it started? No, nothing. Any tragedy? Lovers cruelly separated by circumstances, fair maidens taken against their will, the sort of thing that poets might write a tragedy about? Nothing, he insists, nothing at all.

As we start speaking, his wife runs up to us; she had apparently overheard the bit about six hundred and fifty orens. Well, I'll skip most of my conversation with them, but I'll say she alternated between berating her husband in the local dialect and insisting to me, very unconvincingly, that they do not have six hundred and fifty orens. Suffice it to say, I cut off my conversation with the headman short and began heading to the center of the village.

During the night, I noticed the ghouls being especially drawn to two places: a meadow just outside the village proper and an abandoned burned-out barn at the edge of the village not too far from meadow. While the ghouls walked everywhere, in those two places, there were so many of them they sometimes seemed to coalesce into a clump.

I went to the meadow first. I'm not sure what I expected to see: a perfectly ordinary meadow, lots of grass, wildflowers, a few voles and other animals jumping about. I stood there for a half hour hoping some insight would strike me. But nothing came to mind so I headed towards the barn.

The fire which hollowed out the barn seemed relatively recent, having taken place in the last few months; part of the support was made of metal, and though it had been blackened by the fire and rusted since, the whole thing still stood. I was a little afraid that the whole thing my collapse any moment; so, very gently, I moved inside as if on tiptoes, and began to look at the ground within the barn.

There was not much there. It was clearly cleaned since the time of the fire - I could tell by how neatly pieces of burned wood were arranged that someone had gone over it. Again, I don't know what I expected to find. I went through the barn away and found decayed, burned out wood; stalks of grass that improbably rose through the burned ground; and a few small bones. Clearly someone had died or been injured at the fire.

I took a closer look at the bones. There were only a few of them, slightly hidden beneath clumps of soil in the corner of the barn - thank the maker for those witcher eyes we've got. They were so charred they disintegrated on touch; but before they did, I noticed they were small and delicate, as if they belonged to boys rather than men.

I stood there for quite a while thinking what, if anything, I could conclude. I'm not sure how long it was before I interrupted.

"What in the name of the eternal fire are you doing?"

The headman had run up to me, panting. I suppose someone had told him I was in the barn. He looked almost red with anger.

"Investigating." I've found that the less you explain, the better.

"What the bloody hell are you investigating for? You were hired to kill the ghouls, not investigate." He was shouting.

"If I kill the ghouls," I explained to him in the most patient tone I'm capable of, "they'll just be back in a month or two. I need to alter whatever is drawing them here."

This gave him some pause.

"Is there a ritual you perform that will do that?"

"Of course," I said. "We witchers have more rituals than a sorceress has dresses. Tell me, when did the barn burn down?"

"Three months ago," he answered immediately.

"Why did it catch fire?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Peasants being careless. What do you expect from their lot?"

"Did anyone die?"

"No one."

"Anyone hurt?"

"No," he said. "It happened during the night when no one was there."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said impatiently. "You'd think I know if someone was hurt in my own damn village."

"Any idea why the ghouls tend to congregate here?"

He shrugged. "You're the witcher. You figure it out." Deciding he'd had enough of my questions, he turned around and headed away before I could say another word.


	6. Chapter 6

There seemed to be little else for me to do and I began slowly walking back to Agniezska's house. Along the way, I tried talking to a few of the peasants I ran across, with little success. For one thing, they seemed to be actively trying to evade me; when I did corner one, he would go off in that local dialect that I found incomprehensible, and eventually leave while mumbling a few words I did understand about having to milk some cows or plough some fields.

There did not seem to be any more clues for the taking. I felt stuck. I'm a witcher, not a ploughing detective.

Fortunately Agniezska had cooked some dinner. The smell of stuffed cabbage, some sausages, and potatoes permeated the air, and the meal turned out to be as delicious as the smell advertised. There was a bottle a wine, very plain and barely stronger than grape juice but I was happy to have something better than moonshine.

All during dinner, she looked at me with those big eyes of hers, as if every word that came out of my mouth was pure gold. She wanted to hear stories of my adventures on the path and I was only too happy to oblige. Of course, I made up almost everything I told her.

It occurs to me that if we make an exception for Geralt, who is constantly caught up in the affairs of kings and whose main problem seems to be fending off sorceresses from his bedchamber, the typical witcher's life is a lot more boring than people expect: clearing nekker nests, slaughtering endregas, not very romantic stuff. But I had some good stories up my sleeve: djinns couped up in bottles, princesses pining for forbidden love, you know, the usual.

And she's sitting there, totally lapping it all up. During one of the lulls in the conversation, she asks me, apropos of nothing, "Is it true what they say about witchers?" I might have said she was drunk, but the wine was so weak I doubt it was possible.

Naturally I played it cool. "I don't know," I said. "What do they say?"

She just laughed, a happy and infectious laugh that makes your heart melt. I had the sense we'd be getting to know each other a lot closer that night.

But it was not to be. Enchanting as Agniezka was, I felt as if I was only halfway there at the dinner. My mind was elsewhere, and I've told stories of my adventures so many times, I can do on without thinking. The mystery of these damn ghouls was festering in the back of my head. Why did they keep coming to this village? I felt like a solution was right before me, as if I could just reach out and grab it; but I had absolutely no idea what it might be.

I kept thinking of why the headman was so angry when he came running up to me at the barn. Then I thought of those bones thin, fragile, boy-like. As witchers, we see a lot of bones in our daily work, and I knew instantly those were not the bones of a human adult. But if some teenagers died in the fire, why wouldn't the headman tell me? Why should that be a secret?

And then I thought of who else has small delicate bones - and, in a moment of instant clarity, another explanation occurred to me.

"Tell me," I said during a pause in the conversation, "have any elves ever lived in the village?"

I could tell immediately I had put my foot in it. Her face, the very picture of mirth moments ago, briefly took on a darker turn before coming back to something resembling cheerfulness; but her smile seemed a bit too toothy now to be genuine. "Only a few," she said carelessly. "We had an armorer who was an elf. And a laundress. They left years ago."

"Do you know where they went?"

"What should I know or care?" she said, now openly hostile. "They were a nasty lot. Rude. Only caring about their own kind. I'm glad they're gone."

"And there were no other elves in this village?"

"None."

"None were here as recently as a few months ago?"

"Of course not. Didn't I just say that?"

"I see."

I changed topics again and made some more attempts at conversation, seeking a return to the faux alcohol-infused cheerfulness we had shared only moments ago. It was all to no avail.

I should note here that I can be quite the ladies man. The three of you, exposed as you are regularly to my coarser side, may have a hard time imagining me as dashing and suave, a man of sophistication; but that is what I can be when the situation warrants it. Now, now, don't choke on your beer, Eskel.

But now all my attempts at humor, previously met by that rich laughter, received cold little smiles. Eventually, we lapsed into a silence. A few moments later, she rose from the table, complaining of a headache, and went straight to her room. Needless to say, I was not invited to follow.

Left alone, I climbed up to the roof. It was not yet night though the sun was low in the sky. I watched all the villagers make their way home from the fields. They were, of course, a little nervous: I saw them casting glances at the sky from time to time as if the reassure themselves the sun was still there. But the men were cracking jokes at each other, whistling at the ladies, who were clearly enjoying the attention - mind you, these were peasant folk, not your sophisticated Vizima ladies.

It's strange: they live under this enormous shadow- anyone left outside at night dies - and, over time, they've all gotten used to it. It's a problem for them but hey, they just don't go out at night. They've learned to live with it. Walking home, the villagers looked, for lack of a better word, happy.

Then the night finally fell and the ghouls came out. I've already seen this scene the previous night, but this time I try to take it all in: the hunger of the ghouls, their anxiety. It's as if they are being driven by some smell, something they can get a whiff off but can't quite place. They are frustrated, they are unsatisfied.

I sat on the roof all night watching them. It seemed like a good opportunity to think everything through. And then the first ray of sunlight broke through the clowds and the ghouls scampered back into the dark forest. While the villagers still stayed inside, either sleeping or too afraid to come out just yet, I headed again to the meadow. Do you know what I found there?


	7. Chapter 7

"An elven graveyeard of course," Geralt said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "That is, if you figured out to get a shovel and dig it up."

Lambert let loose a string of curses and looked at Vesemir and Eskel. "Did the two of you figure out it out as well?

"Of course," Vesemir said with a cold, private sort of smile.

"One just needs to put together the evidence," Geralt said. "The bones in the barn, which indicate that there were deaths from the fire. The curious denial of this by the headman. The angry reaction provoked by your examination of the barn."

"Whoever had died had clearly died in the barn," said Vesemir. "The meadow must be where they are buried."

"And then there is the nature of the bones," continued Geralt, "as well as the touchiness you ran into when you asked about elves. Clearly, it was elves that were killed. Finally, there's the puzzle of how a village that should be poor can afford to hire a witcher for two hundred, let alone six-hundred and fifty orens; and why the recent additions to the village are markedly nicer than what was there before."

"Indeed," Vesemir agreed. "A massacre of elves is the logical explanation. If enough elves were killed, the aura created by the tragedy can draw ghouls to the place, even if there are no rotting bodies. It's a rare effect, but it has been observed. There's a footnote in Ghouls and Alghouls about this."

"Eh, it's been a long time since I've had a chance to reread that one," said Lambert sheepishly.

"As I recall," Vesemir said sternly, "you never read it to begin with. I seem to remember a lot of skimming on your part."

"That may be the case," admitted Lambert. He looked back at Geralt. "How long have you known?"

Geralt shrugged. "A massacre of some sort was more or less my first guess when you described the ghouls ambling through the village. They were clearly drawn there by something. Our peasants are no strangers to cruelty, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you."

"Ploughing hell," Lambert said. "And here I thought I was keeping you all in suspense."

"So let me see if got this right," Eskel said. "At some point the village used to be a mix of elves and humans? Then the humans slaughtered all the elves, herding them within the barn and setting it on fire. They took all the elves' possessions, and sold off some of them over the ensuing months - that's why some of them had an influx of money?

"Sounds about right," Vesemir said. "It's only been a few months since Nilfgaard was pushed back across the river. Lots of opportunity for something like this to get lost in the fog of war."

"So I assume you dug up the graveyard in the meadow?" Eskel asked.

Lambert nodded. "I appropriated a shovel from an open shed along the way. To be honest, I hadn't quite figured it all out as I made my plans. It was a bit of a lucky guess."

"How many corpses were there?" Eskel asked.

Lambert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I didn't count them. There might have been enough bones for one hundred corpses? One hundred and twenty? That sounds about right."

Eskel took a gulp of his beer."You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if it's such a bad thing Nilfgaard lost the war."

"You're drunk, Eskel."

"Why, yes, I am drunk. Doesn't change anything. Shush all of you, hear me out."

Eskel looked around at the other witchers as if expecting a challenge. "Is Nilfgaard more cruel? It is Emperor more vicious than the rulers of the Northern Kingdoms? Are it's people more callous that our own peasants?"

"I'd say they're about the same, all considering," Vesemir said, and all the rest nodded.

"Yes!" Eskel said. "Yes! They're all exactly the same!"

"But," he continued, "there's one difference. If we win - if the Northern Kingdoms remain - we'll keep on killing elves and burning mages to the end of time. And our kings will throw away the lives of their subjects warring against each other. Whereas if Nilfgaard wins...well, at least, we'll have peace. No more kings and their petty squabbles. No more burning elves or stringing up mages."

"You're forgetting one thing Eskel," Lambert said. "We'd have to submit to Nilgaardian tyranny."

"Oh yes," Eskel said. "Nilfgaardian tyranny. So much worse than what Radovid is up to. Or what any the Northern kings does every ploughing day."

"Oy!" Vesemir said. "Let's not discuss politics when we're drunk. Lambert, finish the story. So you got a shovel and dug up the remains of the massacre; and you managed to figure out that it is the bones in the meadow that are drawing in the ghouls to the village. What did you do?"

"Ah, yes," Lambert said. "Come to think of it, what did I do?"


	8. Chapter 8

As they say, money doesn't smell. Six hundred and fifty orens is six hundred and fifty orens. Besides, I deserve a visit to Passiflora as much as anyone else. Oh, don't look at me like that. Where do you think your money comes from, Geralt? Ploughing Foltest milking his peasants, that's where.

So I dug up all the bones. It took me some hours. I commandeered a cart and a shovel from one of the village houses nearby. The sight of me digging through the meadow inspired quite the commotion, ha ha. I wish I could show you the faces of the villagers - scared, ashamed, angry - when they emerged from their houses and saw me digging up the meadow. They were a sight to behold.

Of course, they ran to get the headman immediately. Where would our peasants be, without someone to give them orders? I gave him a single glance and a nod when he arrived and then ignored him altogether. He stared at me, mildly hostile, as I went back to digging; but eventually he went back to whatever it was that he did all day. With no one to direct them, the villagers slowly dispersed.

I reburied the bones a few miles into the forest outside the village, about three times deeper than they were before. I have to confess, it took me the better part of the day. I'm not sure why I did it. I could have simply told the peasants what to do. Meletile knows, it's not as if I'm fond of digging holes. I suppose felt some kind of need to do it, though I couldn't begin to tell you why.

In any case, I worked like a madman that day. By dinnertime, I went back to the headman and told him that the job was done and where's my money?

He didn't believe me at first. So I explained, in that patient schoolteacher voice that I learned from Vesemir, that the bones were now deep in the ground, too deep to attract ghouls, and that the aura from the barn is far too weak to draw in the ghouls on its own. You need physical artifacts, bones, hair, nails, that sort of thing. All the same, they should clear the barn and build something else in its place. I also cautioned him the villagers should be a little careful to venture into the forest, just in case.

I can see as I'm explaining all this that he doesn't believe any of it. So I waited patiently with him until night fell. He locks himself up in his house while, for the sake of clarity I suppose, I pull up a chair by his door and sort of lounge in it for a while. Of course, no ghouls come, which, glancing out of his own window, he eventually figures out.

And then...well, then everything went just the way you'd expect. When the villagers saw that the threat was gone, they broke out in celebration. There was much screaming and mirth; someone began playing music and couples started dancing, beginning with the kids. Soon the adults had joined as well; the old women began setting up tables out in the street, bringing out all the beer and wine and bread and butter and sweets that they had. Some children began putting together ghouls made out of paper and hitting them with sticks, creating a lot of delightful little shrieks.

In case you're wondering, I received my six hundred and fifty orens. Everything went pleasantly smooth: no attempt at renegotiation, here's your money and thank you kindly. I suppose the money had bound us together: they committed the crime and I helped them deal with the consequences.

I told the headman I'd celebrate with the villagers. A number of the ladies were interested in a dance, and of course I obliged. Man after man came up to me with congratulations. A few of them paid me the compliment of trying to box with me. You know how it is with the peasants; this was a sign that I was one of them now.

But I am no fool; I know full well that there's no honor among thieves. For one thing, if the headman decided that, along with the peasants, they could take me on, I might end up six hundred and fifty orens poorer. Worse, if the villagers decided their secret would be safer with me swimming among the fishes, well, I'd have a fight on my hands.

I saw little reason to let them have the time to think these things through. I was, of course, the center of attention at the celebration initially; but it took little time for the peasants to get drunk, and I spied several couples, who might or might not have been married to each other, begin to slip away into the dark corners of the village. Over time, less and less attention was paid to me, and when the opportunity to slip away presented itself, I took it.

I walked out of the village just before midnight. I rode all night - it was a wise thing to do, and I felt like I needed a long ride - and I made sure to stay off the main roads. I was halfway to Novigrad on some backwater road by next afternoon. The villagers could not have caught up to me if they wanted to and, in any case, I suspect they were working off their hangovers by then.

Well, that's all I'm afraid. The final part of this story involves a delightful evening spent in the company of my favorite dwarf, and I do think I'd best skip that.


	9. Chapter 9

Lambert finished the last of his Kriek in a big gulp.

"Well," he demanded as he reached for a new bottle, "how did you like my tale?"

"Charming," said Vesemir. "Just charming."

"I'm only surprised you didn't try to squeeze more orens out of them," said Geralt.

"Wouldn't have worked," Lambert said professionally. "After all, I helped them hide the bones. I was an accessory. I had something on them, they had something on me. No leverage."

"I've gotta say I've heard better stories," Eskel said grimly.

"Oh have you?" Lambert smiled. "What if I told you that I managed to squeeze in some one-on-one time with Agniezska just before slipping away? And that she was very, very grateful?"

This was met with a silence. The witchers seemed to look away. Eskel awkwardly took a sip of his beer.

"Oh, my intuition was right, my friends. Her melons...why, let me describe them…"

"Enough!" Vesemir said, rising from the table. But Lambert only looked around before erupting in a howl of laughter. Vesemir, who was about to retire for the night, watched him in surprise.

"Perhaps now is a good time for me to confess that's not what happened at all," Lambert said, almost choking on the words as they came through his uproarious laughs. "I suppose I wanted to see your reaction. Call it professional curiosity."

The witchers looked at him in disbelief.

"What manner of foul humour is this…" Vesemir began; but it turned out that Geralt, Eskel, and Vesemir were talking, or rather screaming, all at once, so that no one could quite hear what anyone was saying.

"I just wonder from time to time," Lambert went on when the others had paused, "how many of you make a habit of taking the money, no questions asked. You know, sure, I'll help you with the ghost of that wife-you-murdered, no problem mate! That sort of thing. Wanted to see if any of you would think this is a perfectly natural way for the story to end."

"Lambert. You're an ass. Have I ever told you that before?" Geralt asked.

"Once or twice, I think. Now, let me tell you what really happened."


	10. Chapter 10

So I'm standing there in front of the mass grave that I've uncovered. I can see the bones, charred by fire, disintegrating as I'm digging them up. It's beginning to dawn on me just what transpired here. So I keep on digging. I want to know how many elves were buried here. But the more I dig, the more bones I find. Once I see there are at least a hundred elves, I stop. One hundred, two hundred, five hundred, what's the difference really? It's all statistics.

I look around the village. The sun has barely risen and the houses look warm and cozy among the golden fields of wheat just beyond. I can see the glimmers of candlelight in a few of the windows and some of the chimneys are huffing with steam. It looks peacefully domestic.

I think something inside of me must have snapped. I don't know how else to describe what happened next. I could say I had a fit of rage but that wouldn't be right. I felt calm. Calm, almost detached from the world around me. You know, I sort of contemplated the world around me and it felt … a little funny.

Yes, funny. Come to think of it, what are we? Chunks of meat, that's what. Isn't it remarkable that meat can talk? That meat can love and betray and murder? We endow these things with great significance, but, at the end of the day, it's just a lot of meat flapping.

Such, at any rate, were my thoughts as I turned from the grave and began walking up to the headman's house. I stood in front of that house for a while, just to let any remaining doubts linger within me. There was a bustle of activity inside, but I didn't bother coming up to the window to take a look. I'm not sure how long I stood there - perhaps it was only a few moments, perhaps a good half hour - but eventually I felt that enough was enough.

I spooled a thread of Igni from my hands and sent it flying onto the roof. All their houses are made of wood, you know, and they have a habit of burnishing it with a layer of hay. It quickly caught fire. Then the supports of his house began blazing, then the walls; soon the whole thing was up in flames. It was beautiful in a way. Have you ever looked at how a flame dances? I mean, really looked at it?

As for the headman, well, it didn't take long for him to run out of the building. I sent a small gust of Aard at his legs so that he tripped and landed on the ground. He was a rather pathetic sight, let me tell you; just imagine the man's rotund frame rolling on the grass like a wheel of cheese. As soon as he managed to steady himself, I knocked him down and sat soundly on top of him.

"Got a question for you," I said. He was still struggling to get up and screaming something or other, so I gave him a sound whack in the teeth to quiet him down.

"Who did it?" I asked

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snarled. But I smacked him a few more times. Eh, I'll spare you the details at this juncture. Suffice it to say, I made things rather unpleasant for him for a little while. He tried to scream all sorts of things at me, but it all went in one ear and out the other.

I could see the fear in his face. He knew exactly what I was talking about, of course. At first he didn't know if I truly knew their secret or merely suspected. But, in time, as I went about making things unpleasant for him, he came to realize that denial was futile, that I would just persist until he told me everything. I saw it in his face. It was a beautiful moment.

"All of us. We all did it."

"All of you?"

"Yes. I gathered the villagers along with some mates. Everyone wanted to come help, every single able bodied man in the village. That tells you something. We all took a share of the results. Those ploughing elves had it coming you know. They were a greedy lot, not caring one whit for humans. They'd have done the same if only…"

I put my hands on his neck and squeezed. His first impulse was to throw my grip off but he could not get a finger between my hands and his neck. He started trying to hit me, but it was altogether too late. His legs writhed for a bit but it did not take long for him to expire.

And then….and then I went from house to house, setting each one on fire. Anyone who attacked me, I killed. It was simple and I liked that. I'll skip through most of this part because it's just so _dull_, you know? The villagers made several attempts to rush me, but they were not very well coordinated, and I simply spooled Igni in their direction whenever they came close. Those that were not set on fire ran in fear. Soon they decided that fighting me was pointless and began to give me a wide berth and they ran out of the village. _Godspeed,_ I thought, may you find a new home. No one bothered me after that, and I went from house to house finishing the job with more threads of Igni.

I'm not sure how many villagers I killed, all in all. Maybe somewhere around a dozen, all during the time when they still tried to resist. Soon the entire village was on fire and it was time for me to go. See, the fire didn't merely stay on the houses; it spread the common spaces, then to the grass, then the fields nearby. I'm pretty sure no one is going to be living there for quite a while.

I made no attempt to chase the rest of the villagers. I suppose they've suffered enough. Maybe. I wonder sometimes if I let them out a little too easy. As the old saying goes, an eye for an eye. Agniezska is among them, out there somewhere, likely cursing my name with every bone in her body.

Looking back on it, I suppose my biggest regret is those six hundred and fifty orens. Once it was all over, I went back to search the headman's hut - gold is too tough to burn, you know - but they weren't there. Bastard must have moved them. I just wish I had gotten the money out of him before I killed him. I searched the remainder of the village for some loot, but all I found was some magicked sword that survived the fire. I couldn't quite tell what enchantments were on it and ended up selling it in the next village over for fifty orens.

Oh well. You can't win them all, can you?


	11. Chapter 11

"Lambert, you fool!" Vesemir was not one to scream and it was difficult to remember the last time he had raised his voice before tonight; but now he was almost at the top of his lungs. "What have you done?"

"What? I've made sure justice was served, that's what I've done."

Vesemir shook his head. "We'll have an angry mob at the gates of Kaer Morhen come springtime."

"Maybe." Lambert didn't seem bothered by this idea. "Justice comes at a price, though, don't you think?"

"Melitele save us," Eskel said, "You're mad. They'll issue a new edition of _Monstrum_ over this."

"A new edition of _Monstrum_," Lambert repeated thoughtfully. "I think I'd like that. I hope I get a spread, just for me."

Geralt, meanwhile, had remained silent. Looking at his fellow witchers, he cleared his throat.

"Normally, I'd be very worried right now," he said. "But Vesemir, Eskel, you forget who you're talking to. He's just trying to get a rise out of us, don't you see? He didn't really kill all those villagers."

"Is that true?" Vesemir demanded.

"It might be," Lambert admitted with a shit-eating grin on his face.

This declaration was greeted by a moment of stunned silence. Then, rather uncharacteristically, Vesemir let out a string of curses. Eskel began throwing empty bottles at Lambert, forcing the latter under the table. Only Geralt sat back calmly and sipped his beer.

"Come now," Lambert said a half-hour later, when conversation became possible again. "I may be an idiot but I'm not insane. I have no desire to end up on one of Radovid's pikes. Surely you didn't think I slaughtered all the villagers?"

"Fuck knows what you'd do," Eskel said.

"But it would have been just," insisted Lambert. "They all either slaughtered the elves, or conspired in it, or did their part in keeping the secret. No one there, save the children, is innocent."

"But what did you do?" Vesemir asked, now genuinely worried. "Lambert, what did you do?"

"Put yourself in my situation. What could I do?" He shrugged. "Perhaps I just left. Went to the headman, told him that I couldn't help him, and set out the Passiflora to see if my favorite dwarf would give me a freebie. Would serve them all right, no? They'd go on living with a constant reminder of what they've done."

"Is that what you did?" Geralt asked.

"No," Lambert said. Geralt was once again overcome by a strong desire to punch Lambert and it took him the greatest self control to avoid doing so.

"Enough games," Vesemir said. "Tell us what you did."

"Very well," said Lambert. "So I'm standing there, over the newly-opened grave…"


	12. Chapter 12

So I'm standing there, over the newly-opened grave, weighing my options. You know, I always thought being a witcher would be a straightforward business. Get contract, slay monster, obtain payment, fight off adoring peasant women. Simple, right?

I had, by that point, dug up only a small portion of the grave; but there seemed to be little point in digging up the remainder. I began to walk back to Agniezska's house, thinking about just how the whole thing occurred. Was it spur of the moment? Or planned for months? How many people put it together? Who led it? Who went along with the flow?

When I got back, Agniezska was setting out the plates for breakfast. She greeted me with a cold nod; our relationship seems to have improved only slightly from last night, when I had set it back by prodding her slightly about the elves. Given how touchy she had been, it occurred to me that she knew more than she let on.

"Sit down with me," I said, making an Axii sign with my hands.

She gave me a little smile and sat across of me.

Have I ever told you about my Axii? I've perfected it over the years. The classic version will overpower your adversary, a bit like a blunt hammer. Great for battle, great to get a few words out of someone who doesn't want to talk. But I've figured out a way to make it subtler, a little bit less overwhelming. My Axii acts almost like a very strong suggestion.

"Whose idea was it the burn the elves?"

She seemed ready to launch into a denial when I went on.

"You have nothing to fear from me," I said, making another Axii with my hands beneath the table. "Nothing at all. But I do need to know all the details. All of them. It's the only way I can banish the ghouls. Do you understand? I need to know to banish the ghouls."

I could see the struggle in her face, the conflicting emotions and desires. But I have not been perfecting my Axii for nothing.

"Lazslo and Kazia's," she said.

"Whose?" I asked. It turned out these were the names of the headman and his wife, which I'd entirely forgotten by then.

"Lazslo was not our headman until recently," she began. "For years, our headman was a blacksmith called Bogdan. There were always whispers that he was partial to the elves, who the rest of us have always despised. What do we need them here for, in our land? They don't work the soil, and every profit they make buying and selling can be made by one of our own instead. But Bogdan never let such talk go very far. "

It looked almost as if she was relieved to say all this, though that could have just been my imagination. I simply sat there and listened.

"Yes, none of us were too happy with Bogdan. Some people said he had an elven mistress. But Bogdan was put in his place by our Baron and visited the Baron's castle every spring. Come harvest he could always be counted on to bargain down the Baron's taxman."

"And then came the war. The Baron is dead now, or at least so people say. I suppose his son might be Baron now. Bogdan had lost his value to us. There was no law and order anywhere, the whole countryside was sliding into lawlessness. Still, we kept on going the way we always did - until, at least, what happened with Lazslo's daughter."

"Did you know Lazslo had a daughter? She was old enough to be taking a husband come next season or the one after. Sturdy lad, wide hips, she'd birth her future husband many children. Tended to run off with the miller's son though Lazslo, who had high aspirations for her, would have probably put a stop to that soon enough."

"One day she caught the chills. Her tongue turned blue and bright red spots appeared on her face. She thrashed about in pain, screaming unintelligible things. Nothing helped. A doctor passed by the village and looked at her, but whatever he had given her didn't make any difference. Eventually Lazslo sent for one of the elven herbalists."

"Her name was Thegla, an old wrinkly-looking hag who lived in a hut somewhere in the woods for generations. At first, she refused to give the girl anything. But Lazslo insisted, he would not let her go until she helped somehow, and finally she gave them a concoction of honeysuckle and wolfsbane. For a little bit, the girl seemed to get better: the red spots on her face disappeared, she was able to sleep at night. Yet barely a week later, when her mother went to wake her up in the morning, she was as cold as a stone. She died later that day."

"Kazia went a little mad, understandably. But after she the screaming was over - after she had cried her eyes out - she grew convinced the herbalist had purposefully poisoned her daughter. She was hysterical. She went door to door, shouting at anyone who would listen about the elves."

"It might have even been true. Everyone knows elves care only for their own kind, that they have nothing but contempt for humans. They view us as a blight upon their land and pray for the day when they'll evict us from it. I don't know if Kazia's daughter was poisoned. But my husband said it was high time to get rid of the elves."

"Your husband?" That confused me - she had previously said her husband died in the war with Nilfgaard.

She nodded, and a few tears streamed down her face. "His name was Karel. After a few days of Kazia's histrionics, he went along to talk to Lazslo. Over the next few days, they went from house to house, talking to the husbands of all the men Kazia had visited. I don't know the details of what they said. Karel said it was better I didn't know."

"One evening, a few days later, he had gotten his old sword - he used to work as a mercenary some years ago. A few of the peasants stopped by our house with pitchforks. When Karel left that night, he told me to go to sleep and stuff my ears with hay, which I did."

She blew her nose and wiped the tears away with a hankerchief. "When I woke up the next morning, Lazlo was our new hadman; there was no sign of Bogdan or the elves. Her face had broken into raw agony. "And Karel did not come back that next morning. Lazslo said he took an arrow to the heart. "

"Was he the only one?"

She shook her head through the tears. "Three humans did not survive that night, besides him."

I gave her a hearty thanks for telling me. She was quite obviously in a lot of pain, and needed some comfort; but it would have to company from someone but me. Not only am I generally shit at such things, but I didn't quite know what to say to her.

My next stop was the headman's house. I could see smoke coming out of the chimney as I approached. I looked in the window: Lazslo - you know, I think I'll just refer to him as the headman - it feels a little odd to call him by his name - anyway, the headman was eating breakfast, some kind of porridge whose smell had wafted through the window. A big pot of some liquid was huffing on the stove. His kids ran about the kitchen. I counted three boys; his wife was having a hard time keeping them all in line.

Well, the next part of the story proceeds not unlike what you've already heard. Much as I hated to interrupt this sweet domestic scene, ha ha, I spooled Igni and threw it at the house until it began the burn. Out they all came, kids, wife, husband. I let the kids run away but made sure to knock out the headman and his wife. As they're lying on the ground next to me, I took a good look around. There was a pile of lumber nearby, enough to make a makeshift gallows; and so, I set to work. It took me about an hour or two to put them together. I'm no peasant; what do I know about woodwork? Halfway through, I realized I was doing it wrong and had to start over.

A bunch of the peasants gathered round me, watching me work. I could hear some murmurs, I could tell they're talking about attacking me. Whenever the headman or his wife came to, why I just knocked em out again. Simple. The peasants look at me disapprovingly and a mob began to form. I was ready for them to rush me but the attack never came.

You may say I was unwise Vesemir; but I tell you I was quite willing to kill them all. No, I didn't care if that results in a second edition of _Monstrum_. But as it was, there turned out to be no need for me to massacre the peasants. Perhaps they decided that a lone witcher could overpower them. Perhaps they had responded instantly to the change of authority. At any rate, soon enough the gallows were finished. I took a look at my handiwork, and you know what? I was proud. I may not be the best woodworker but those were some damn acceptable gallows.

Then I turned to the crowd and began to speak.

I forget what I said to them. You know me, I'm not one for flowery speeches, and I certainly didn't rehearse this one. The gist of it was that I was going to hang everyone who was responsible for the massacre, and then and only then was I going to explain to them how to get rid of the ghouls. If they tried to resist, I'd just kill them all. I forget exactly how I put it. I think it sounded a little better than the version I'm repeating now.

Whatever I had said must have been convincing enough, because, when I asked for some rope, a few of them scurried off to bring it to me. Other than that, they just looked away or on the ground when I finished.

"Well," I roared at the crowd, "who else was responsible? Tell me, or you'll all hang."

"It was them," one of the boys who looked scarcely over twelve had said, pointing at the figures of the headman and his wife, lying on the ground before me. "Lazslo told me he'd break my legs if I didn't come along to help out."

"Aye," said another one of the peasants, an older man, "they told me if I didn't come along, I'd be burned along with the monsters."

"My daughter has the typhus," someone piped up, "and Kazia had said that she'd pay for the cure if I did my part."

"I didn't even know we were burning elves," someone else shouted. "Lazslo lied to me. He told me we were executing some bandits."

Well, I let them go on like this for a good long while. They all maintained that it was that Lazslo and Kazia were responsible for the whole ordeal, and everyone here was coerced or misled one way or another. It made me happy to hear that. Don't get me wrong, I knew it was ninety-nine parts bullshit to one part truth. But I thought it was good for their souls, you know? Let them believe they were forced into the things they did.

Here's the thing, remarkable and completely unsurprising: they all believed it. In that moment, every man was convinced that he had nothing to do with it, that it was all the fault of the headman and his wife. And I knew that they'd go on believing it, that from now on this would be the story they would tell themselves about this event, and that no one would remember otherwise. It wasn't ideal, but as far as possible outcomes go, it seemed like far from the worst one.

At some point, Lazslo and Kasia began to come to and, this time, I didn't bother knocking them out. I hardly need to say that they were confused to hear the litany of complaints coming of the peasants, directed at themselves. Before long, though, they caught sight of the direction the wind was blowing and took off into the woods.

What did I do? Well, I didn't move a muscle. I simply turned to the crowd and said, "Bring them to me."

The peasants hesitated. But the hardier among them set off in pursuit and then the rest joined. Soon enough, both Lazlo and Kazia were being brought back to me, their hands tied behind with some kind of makeshift rope. They were livid, swearing and cursing at the peasants, but it seemed clear their authority had expired.

Perhaps I'll rush through the remainder of the story. To make a long story short, I had the peasants string up Lazslo and Kazia. There was much protestation on the part of those two, but it did them little good in the end. As they hung there, I gave a little speech about crimes and consequences and I dare say it was well-received. At least, no one seemed to look me in the eye afterwards.

You know, that's the wonderful thing about our peasants: it is in their nature to follow orders. I think they've been bred for it. Consider: for thousands of years, a peasant who rebelled against his masters did not keep his head for very long. By now obedience is ingrained in them. Not long ago, Lazslo was directing them to herd the elves in the barn and set it on fire, and they went along. Now I was directing them to hang Lazslo for that crime, and they went along. Perhaps a part of it was calculation, perhaps they did not think the lot of them could take me on, and perhaps they needed my help to get rid of the ghouls; but I think part of it was a deep-seated readiness to follow orders, as long a they were confidently issued by an authority figure.

Once it was all over, I explained to the peasants how to rebury the bones so that the ghouls would stay way; working together, it took the lot of them barely more than an hour. Sadly, I was unable to find the orens I was due in the burned-out remains of Lazslo's house, though one of the villagers presented a sword that was in his family from time immemorial that was said to have been forged from the eternal fire itself. Sounds rather amazing, right? Unfortunately, the damage of that sword was not entirely impressive, though it did make parrying easier, and I sold it at the next village for ninety orens.

And then the celebration had broken out. Laszlo and Kazia might have been gone but when night had fallen no ghouls appeared. The village would thrive. They would need a new headman, and I heard some mutterings about who it might be. It was all surprisingly jovial: there was dancing, carousing, and singing; the old ladies had begun setting up tables outside their houses and cooking dumplings, kebabs, and a kind of beet soup. A visitor who had come upon the village might have imagine that everyone was full of unalloyed happiness. Certainly, from observing the villagers, no one could have guessed that a makeshift gallows with two corpses was just out of sight.

In any case, I was heartily congratulated by most of the village men during the celebration. But there was deference and respect in their looks, quite unlike to what I'm used to seeing. As always, the men had formed circles and began some friendly fistfights; but no one invited me to join. Of course, I had my fill of the food that was free for all, but the village women seemed to keep their distance from me, so I found I had little to do at the celebration but stand about like a sore prick. I saw no need to visit Agniezska either.

In short, I was on the road to the next village about an hour after nightfall.

Looking back, what I sometimes think about are the children. You remember I saw some kids in the house as I watched Lazslo and Kazia through the window? I didn't follow what happens to them as they ran away. Did they watch me direct a mob string up their parents? What will their lives be like now, growing up as the children of criminals on whom the sins of the village were scapegoated? Should I be worried that, decades hence, one of them might find me in some dark alley in a fit of revenge? I suppose that's the life of a witcher, though, isn't it?


	13. Chapter 13

"Well," Lambert said, "what do you think?"

"They might still report you to their Baron," Eskel said. "The new one, that is. What did you say the village was called?"

"Glenn Perch," Lambert said. "It was in Temeria or Redania, somewhere in the forest between them where no one knows to whom each village belongs." He took a big gulp of his Kriek. "As to my getting in trouble...you forget, I know where the bodies are buried, literally. Even if they rebury them, they won't be too hard to find for a witcher. No, I think they won't report me to anyone. Their best bet is to keep maintaining they were coerced."

"So I wouldn't worry Vesemir," he continued. "I don't think there'll be a new edition of _Monstrum_ coming out."

"But is this this what really happened?" Vesemir asked.

"Maybe," Lambert smiled. "It's the last ending you are going to hear, that's for sure."

"God damn it Lambert," Geralt said, "why must you be such a troll?"

"Ah, Geralt, what a question. As St. Lebioda had once remarked, I am what my maker made me, not one jot more or less."

"Does Glenn Perch even exist?" Eskel asked. He had gone over to the map of the Northern Kingdoms on the wall. "I don't see it here."

"Of course not," Lambert snapped. "Does the map mark every podunk village in the Northern Kingdoms? Be sensible, Eskel."

"Besides," Geralt added, "The signpost that read Glenn Perch - did it look like it was new?"

"Come to think of it, it did. The wood glistened."

"Then the village might have had a different name not so long ago. Glen means 'valley' in elven. Perhaps a bit of renaming went along with the massacre."

"Well, where is it?" asked Eskel.

"Thereabouts." Lambert went to the map and circled an area with his finger.

"Can you do any better? That might be two hundred square miles you pointed at."

"Well, I'm ploughing sorry Eskel, I'm not in the habit of making maps when I'm out on the path. Mapmaking, along with quilting, knitting, and cross-dressing, was not a skill they taught me at witcher academy. If you have any complaints, take them up with the headmaster." He gestured towards Vesemir.

"And now, gentlemen," he continued, "I think I've had all the alcohol I can handle." He rose from the table, and, somewhat unsteadily, made his way to the tower and began to walk up the staircase.

"God damn it, Lambert," Vesemir shouted after him. "Should I be expecting a mob at our doors? Can't you say plainly what had happened?"

"You know," came back the reply, echoing down the tower, "I think I might have dreamt the whole thing. Really, you should just ignore me when I'm drunk."

Geralt took a sip of his mead. It was warm and delightful and its flavor seemed to dispel the aura of Lambert's story. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "I've met many asses in my life. But I'm pretty sure Lambert is the biggest ass of all."

For once, the three witchers found themselves entirely in agreement.


End file.
